


Washing the Dust

by MajorAccent



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Human, M/M, Painter Derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-24
Updated: 2014-03-24
Packaged: 2018-01-16 19:51:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1359745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MajorAccent/pseuds/MajorAccent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I hate that you’re a morning person,” Stiles says from the passenger seat, hood pulled low over his eyes and drawn shut by the strings to block out the 7AM sun as he leans his head against the window.</p>
<p>Derek hums, glancing in his rear view and looking over his shoulder before he changes lanes to take the on-ramp towards San Francisco. “I told you that you could sleep,” he offers as he turns on cruise control for the foreseeable stretch of bare highway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Washing the Dust

**Author's Note:**

> I had a Art History midterm last week, and my studying for that along with Holly's bad influence caused this.
> 
> The unwritten backstory to this is that Derek and Stiles meet because they have the same therapist. I'll probably come back to this at some point and write that, but for now. It is what it is.
> 
> Title comes from a Pablo Picasso quote: "The purpose of art is washing the dust of daily life off our souls."

“I hate that you’re a morning person,” Stiles says from the passenger seat, hood pulled low over his eyes and drawn shut by the strings to block out the 7AM sun as he leans his head against the window.  
  
Derek hums, glancing in his rear view and looking over his shoulder before he changes lanes to take the on-ramp towards San Francisco. “I told you that you could sleep,” he offers as he turns on cruise control for the foreseeable stretch of bare highway.  
  
Stiles huffs and pulls his legs up onto the seat, barefoot with his shoes already kicked off. “Good, because I’m gonna,” he mutters, pulling his sleeves over his hands and crossing his arms. “Wake me up if you stop for food.”  
  
“We’ll be in Berkeley by nine,” Derek scoffs. “We can just eat at a Denny’s when we get there.”  
  
Stiles doesn’t respond, already breathing deeper as he slumps lower in the seat.  
  
—  
  
Derek opens the car door Stiles is sleeping against, forcing him into bolting upright. “What the fuck?” He grunts, looking at Derek as he pulls the seatbelt away from his neck. “You couldn’t have just nudged me?”  
  
“I did when I parked,” Derek says. “You batted me away, said “go put our name in for a table and come get me when it’s ready.”” He repeats, watching Stiles unbuckle himself and stuff his feet back into his sneakers as he stands. “And now our table’s ready, the hostess or whatever’s waiting for us.”  
  
Stiles makes an acknowledging noise as he follows Derek up the curb to the door, shooting a sheepish smile to the woman standing behind the podium that’s looking at them expectantly.  
  
“I’m getting ninety cups of coffee,” he whispers to Derek as they follow her to a booth across from the bar.  
  
—  
  
Stiles burns his tongue on the first sip, and Derek flags down the waitress for a glass of ice cubes.  
  
“And he’ll probably want a glass of cranberry juice now, too,” he adds before she heads back to the kitchen, Stiles running his front teeth over the rough patch now on the flat of his tongue.  
  
“Sure,” she smiles, adding it on to their bill. “Are you ready to order, while I’m here?”  
  
“Lumberjack Slam,” Stiles requests. “With hashbrowns, eggs over easy, and sourdough.”   
  
—  
  
“So, what’s at UCB’s museum that you want to see?” Stiles asks, stabbing the corner of his toast into the egg yolk.  
  
Derek chews and swallows his waffle. “Paz Errázuriz’s collection,” he answers. “She’s a Chilean photographer—they have her pictures from the 1960’s during the dictatorship.”  
  
“Cool,” Stiles says with a shrug and bites into the sausage link that’s speared on the head of his fork. “What else is there?”  
  
“Some installations, Southeast and Tibetan art, and a thing on Malcolm X,” Derek lists.  
  
Stiles nods. “Too bad the SFMOMA’s closed for expansion,” he frowns and reaches for the salt shaker. “Because I’d want to see Frida Kahlo, and I know for a fact you love Paul Klee.”  
  
“Cubism was a cool movement,” Derek defends.  
  
“And yet for some reason you don’t like Josef Albers’ whole color blocking shtick,” Stiles laughs delightedly, seeing the grimace Derek makes.  
  
“Cubism takes composition and depth and perspective into account,” Derek maintains. “Albers just made squares in different colors.”  
  
Stiles snorts into his cup of cranberry juice, still laughing at him.  
  
—  
  
Derek gets free run of the exhibits, Stiles waving him off. “I’ll be in the Medieval section,” he says as Derek hesitates in the museum’s main room. “Just follow the sound of my laughter, because Byzantine art is hilarious.”  
  
“Please don’t,” Derek sighs, already wincing at the image.  
  
Stiles rolls his eyes, stepping away. “Go enjoy your Chilean revolution pictures,” he commands and takes a sharp left at the end of the reception desk to the archway leading to the exhibit.  
  
—  
  
“You still looking around?” Stiles asks, finding him in between the Malcom X sculptures and the instillation in the big room a couple hours later. “Or are you done?”  
  
“Almost,” Derek answers, glancing back to Stiles and reaching out to find his hand and tugging him closer. “I was just thinking about this one.”  
  
Stiles hums in acknowledgment, leaning more of his weight on Derek. “Take your time,” he says.  
  
Derek’s gaze tracks over the knots tied into the bronze of the piece. “Do you want to talk about what it means?” He asks, joking as he nudges Stiles’ shoulder with his own.  
  
“Layers of pain,” Stiles says immediately. “That’s why there’s all different kinds of fabric and size of the knots.”  
  
“And the white one?” Derek prompts quietly.  
  
Stiles frowns, mouth scrunched to one side. “Death as a release,” he answers and lets the silence drag until he snorts a laugh out his nose. “Fuck, that’s dark.”  
  
Derek shrugs and tugs him toward the instillation that’s a mess of geometric shapes being used as a jungle gym by a four year old as she jumps between the cushion as her mom watches from the side. “Are you done? Or, do you want to scare children with your nihilism some more?”  
  
“Bet you wish you took me to somewhere with Frida Kahlo now,” he grins. “Because then I could’ve wooed you with her out of context quotes, like “I love you more than my own skin.””  
  
“Why do you know Frida Kahlo quotes?” Derek asks, turning to look at Stiles straight on.  
  
Stiles waves his hand, still beaming. “Morelle suggested I take up painting once, too.” He explains. “But then she realized I was way more into reading then doing something with my hands, so she told me to research whatever I wanted—and since I knew you were doing painting, and I wanted to talk to you, I started with artists.”  
  
Derek ducks his head, smiling gently. “So you know Frida Kahlo quotes because of me?”  
  
“Yeah,” Stiles nods, swinging the arm that’s holding Derek’s hand still. “Just be happy I didn’t try to learn the Spanish and force you to listen to me butcher it with my accent.”  
  
“Quisiera darte todo lo que nunca hubieras tenido, y ni así sabrías la maravilla que es poder quererte,” Derek recites, making Stiles roll his eyes.  
  
“Show off,” he mutters. “Watch me say something in Gaelic and have you be totally lost and in awe.”  
  
Derek laughs, nudging him toward the exit. “C’mon, before traffic gets bad.”

**Author's Note:**

> And my tumblr's [here](http://pacificrimmers.tumblr.com/) if you want to yell at me.


End file.
